Intimacy
by Moody Peach
Summary: "Diana," he whispers, briefly touching his lips against her forehead. "We have all the time in the world." [Drabble – Canon]


Diana knows touch.

Steve's hands are rough, familiar. His skin is patterned with cracks and fissures; she's reminded of the scars that decorate her sisters' bodies.

When she blossomed into a "woman," no longer troubled by her small legs and awkward gait, she had found herself marveling at the women whose skin was raw and whose eyes bore into hers with nothing short of familial love.

It perturbed her when she was younger—a strange concept for a timeless creature—when she found herself gazing at these women while a murmur of fire burned inside of her veins. "Touch me," she would think, her own hands roaming the length of her slender body, "let me know _touch_."

But to them she was always a child; a gift, a blessing, a daughter to most. She knew they would never be able to forget how she had awkwardly stumbled through the island with her laughter spilling from her mouth like blood—even after she had grown, her legs stretching and her breasts filling out.

To them she was "little sister." Some gazed longingly at her as a child, wishing they had birthed her themselves.

Diana's skin is soft as satin. It always delighted her mother, who would smooth her own calloused and strong hands down her daughter's arm.

"Remarkable," she would whisper.

Steve, too, caresses her flesh as if it is an inconceivable concept.

"After all that," he murmurs, his hand roaming the length of her arms and legs, "and not a mark on you."

"I hate it," Diana responds earnestly, her eyes peering into his blue eyes; they remind her of the days she spent wading in the ocean, the salt coloring her hair a rich ebony. Her mother called her dark mane "a fountain of silk and liquid onyx."

"You heal," he replies, and his lips brush across her neck. A sigh slips through her lips. "You heal insanely fast. You're…"

"Diana," she interjects, smirking now, "I am Diana."

"Diana of Themyscira," he echoes, his voice a soft caress in the night.

Outside of their room the men, women, and children of the village celebrate life and victory, and yet buried beneath the jeering crowd and clinking of mugs and boisterous laughter Diana can feel their fear and despair; it crawls into her skin and smothers her heart. _Protect_ , she thinks, her hands twitching, aching for battle and the steel grip of her sword. _I must protect them_.

Steve quips an eyebrow. "Penny for your thoughts?"

She furrows her brow. "I… You want to know my mind?"

"What are you thinking about?" he offers.

Death.

Ares.

The way Steve's fingers seem to melt into her hips—as if they belong there, as if they have always known her.

Her mother, who would feel disgust for this mad war and its even madder players.

 _They don't deserve you_.

"I want to help," she replies, pressing herself closer to him. It's warm. She can hardly hear the festivities while his heartbeat thrums like music against her ear. "I need to defend these people, but Steve… I must find Ares."

"Do you live to protect or to fight?" It's an innocent question. There is no accusation or disdain in his voice.

She thinks of the elderly women who had earlier kissed her hands and the men who had grasped her shoulders as if she were a long lost friend. Her mind wanders to the children kicking trash in the street, their youthful minds always eager to forget, forget, _forget_. Diana can still sense the way her shield vibrated as a missile—that's what Steve had called it, yes—had careened toward her and struck it, knocking her off trajectory. There was no fear in her in that moment, even after Steve had explained, "It could've blown you to pieces."

"I want to fight so I can defend you… everybody."

"You sure did a hell of a job," he chuckles. "They don't even know what hit 'em."

Her sisters and her mother had stared at her in fear and confusion during training. _What is she?_ Their eyes had glimmered. Had their familial love blinded their distrust of her? _Is she a gift or a curse?_

The villagers had cheered, gazed upon her as if she were a stone idol come to life. Even Steve had admired her from afar, in awe of her display of power and courage.

 _But what is courage without fear?_

She watches Steve now, whose eyes are closed while his hand plays with her hair. He is afraid. He is also prepared to die. Death was foreign to her, but now as she stares at him—and thinks of all the people down below who fear what tomorrow brings—she suddenly feels Death wrap it hands around her throat, gripping until she can hardly breathe. It's only when Steve's hands grasp her thigh that she is broken from the spell.

It has been such a short span of time since she stepped foot in that dreadful London, but in that strange stretch of blood and mystery and travel and war she had become intimate in more complexities than she could begin to comprehend. Death, once an impossible destination, now lurks in the shadow like a predator. Love is a feat of compassion and pleasure.

And, above all else—in this realm of gods and monsters—Death and Love must bend the knee to Time.

"We don't have much time," she murmurs. "We need to find Ares."

"Diana," he whispers, briefly touching his lips against her forehead. "We have all the time in the world."


End file.
